


Algophilia

by Waolll



Series: rarepair hell headcanons [2]
Category: VALORANT (Video Game)
Genre: Also not super explicit, Angst, Blood and Injury, But it's there, Cypher Is A Creep, Established Relationship, M/M, Suicidal Ideation, Surveillance, it's not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29941578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waolll/pseuds/Waolll
Summary: “I can’t watch you put yourself in the line of fire. Not for my sake.”“It is a good thing then that it was not for you,” Aamir says, “I am growing tired of this conversation. Will you repeat yourself again? I will not listen.”“Then,” Sova steps forward, “I will make you listen.”-Or, Cypher gets shot. Viper has terrible bedside manner. Sova isn't impressed.
Relationships: Cypher/Sova (VALORANT)
Series: rarepair hell headcanons [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2202027
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	Algophilia

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers? I guess? contains medically incorrect descriptions of a gun wound. It's kinda gore adjacent but it's not particulary explicit either. Let me know if you think the rating needs to be changed.

The thing about bullet proof vests, Aamir thinks, is that they are not actually bulletproof.

It is far from the first time he has been shot. But he is still hyperaware of the steel imbedded in his flesh. Lodged somewhere between his ribs and the soft bloody tissues of his chest. He can feel it acutely as it shifts with each step. He leans into the arm around his waist as he stumbles towards med bay, his boot slipping on something slick underfoot.

“Easy now,” Sova’s arm tightens, sending a fresh wave of pain up his spine.

“Shit,” Astra chitters, “that is like a lot of blood Morocco, you doing ok?”

“Yeah, that’s a totally normal amount of blood to be having on the outside of your body,” Breach drawls. Aamir can barely make out his accent, his senses dulled by the deafening beat of his heart.

“I’m fine,” Aamir hisses between steps.

He hears the unmistakable sound of someone being hit over the head.

“Children,” Omen sighs.

Sova pulls him along steadily, as quick as the severity of the wound allows for. He is not sure when his movements have become so sluggish, and at this point he is barely walking. Sova is the only thing keeping him upright. “We’re almost there.”

He blinks and finds himself staring at the door of the med bay. Astra knocks on the door three times with her fist, before turning the handle. The door is locked.

“Hello o, anyone home?”

“Get out of the way.” Aamir hears the sound of Breach’s arms charging up.

He feels his body go limp right before he passes out again. He has just enough awareness to hear Sova swear.

When he opens his eyes, he is greeted with the sight of Sabine sneering down at him. The familiarity of it is strangely comforting; it is the only expression she has ever directed towards him. Though he knows that she is capable of smiling. He has seen pictures of it. A younger woman without the weight of a decade’s guilt and sin on her shoulders. He takes in the disgust on her face as she examines the wound at his side. It is a good sign; it means he is not dead.

“A century of experience between the lot of you and not a single ounce of common sense,” she scorns.

“Sage and Skye are both out on higher priority missions.”

“Then don’t get shot,” Viper says pulling out the karambit from her belt.

Breach whistles.

“I am certain that this is not standard medical procedure,” Aamir complains weakly.

“Shut up,” she grabs his coat and slices it down the middle with unnerving precision before peeling away the fabric, taking his rudimentary bandage with it. “Omen, grab the trolley.”

She stabs the knife into the table leaving it upright— Aamir abruptly realises that he is lying on a stainless steel bench of the likes he generally associates with labs or mortuaries—to unclip the sides of the bullet proof vest and push the chest piece over the top of his head. She grabs the knife again, it pulls free of the table with the painful shriek of metal-on-metal, to tear up the rest of his clothes.

“No exit wound?” she asks.

“I can assure you it is still-” he grunts as Viper presses the head of something ice cold into the wound. It is followed by the sound of scraping as she probes the injury. He glances down and notes that at least she is using surgical tweezers. She does not give him the chance to react before she rips out the bullet. He bites back a choked noise and throws his head back into the table.

“There we are,” she says tossing the tweezes to the side. He hears the bullet roll around the metal tray. “Syringe.”

He eyes the eery green liquid in the syringe Omen passes her, “I was thinking stitches.”

“I never learnt how to sew,” Viper reveals, “This is the best you’re going to get. Are you refusing treatment?”

“Sabine,” Omen hisses.

“Just hurry it up,” he grunts, staring at the ceiling.

He does not see her slam the syringe into the flesh adjacent to the wound, but he can feel it. Involuntarily clenching his fists at the pressure that fills his chest as she presses down on the plunger. The solution, whatever it is, reacts immediately. It is nothing like the soothing sensation he has learnt to associate with Sage or Skye’s regenerative abilities. Whatever this is, it _burns,_ liquid fire licking its way up his wound. It leaves him with no awareness of the initial injury. Unable to differentiate any sensations, just that his entire right side has turned into a mass of unrelenting pain.

He throws his head back again, slamming his skull into the table, as arms—Omen’s—hold him down onto the table. The sound that rips it way out of his throat is that of a dying animal, hollow of anything human.

“Christ. Remind me of this if I ever ask Viper for anything,” Breach scoffs.

“This is,” Viper pauses, “still within the normal parameters of a reaction.”

“Yikes o.”

“How long?” Omen asks.

“Twenty more seconds,” she looks down at her watch, “give or take. But have an adrenaline shot ready just in case.”

“And what then?” he says.

“I’ll let you know if we get there.”

Aamir feels like he is drowning in his own head, teetering on the line between consciousness. Unable to fall one way or another because of the sheer amount of pain, pulling and pushing him from the brink. Only for it to dissipate just as quickly as it started. The fire burnt out. He finds himself reeling in the aftershock, his brain unable to process its abrupt absence. His head hurts, his throat feels raw, but his side is _fine_. Sensitive, maybe, but nothing more.

He pushes his gloved hands against the table, trying to ground himself. They slip against steel, slick with his own blood. Omen is still bearing down on him, as if he might break out into another fit.

“Let go,” he croaks. When he swallows, he is overwhelmed by the taste to blood. He must have bitten his tongue.

Omen looks down at him, assessing him. Aamir wonders what it is he is looking for that he can sense through Cypher’s mask. His body language doesn not give anything away. Whatever it is, he finds it. And he pulls away from Aamir as if he were the one burnt.

“Remarkable. How do you feel?” Viper asks.

"Not at all like I've been shot," Aamir wonders breathlessly.

He looks down and finds his chest whole beneath a layer of still wet blood. Where there was previously a gaping hole looks to be a matted mess of scar tissue, only marginally bigger than the bullet that caused it. He is tempted to reach up and touch, but Viper swats away his hand the moment he lifts it towards his front.

“Idiot. Give it time to settle. It should be fine within a few hours. Don’t strain it. Or do,” she looks towards the agents scattered around the room, “I don’t care. Just get him out of my lab.”

Aamir sits up slowly, still marvelling at the lack of pain as he straightens. He gingerly slides off the bench and down onto his feet. His head feels stuffy, as if he has slept for too long.

“Right. Show’s over,” Breach says, and then to Sova, “Take Cypher to his room? I’ll let the captain know when the team gets back.”

“Alright. Let’s go,” Sova slips an arm around Aamir’s waist and starts leading him out of the lab. Aamir really does not need the extra support anymore, but he still swings his arm over Sova’s shoulder. Happy for the excuse to lean against the other agent.

They walk back slowly. Aamir imagines he makes an alarming picture; with his coat hanging off his shoulders in ribbons and drenched in streaks of drying blood. Sova is quiet at his side so Aamir thinks of the solution Viper administered to him. Whatever it was, it was clearly experimental. Useful though; definitely worth hacking into Viper’s personal files and reading through for additional information. Such an immediate and effective cure-all would be priceless in spite of any temporary pain.

“That was stupid of you,” Sova says. Rousing Aamir out of his own head as the round the corner towards his room.

“You will need to be more specific. I have done many stupid things recently.”

“Getting shot, getting in the way.” Aamir can see the tension in Sova’s jaw as he grinds out the words. He is silent for a long time before continuing, “That bullet was not meant for you.”

It makes him grow all the fonder, watching Sova struggle for words like this. Sova is not a man of few words, but he is quiet. It is a quietness born out of isolation, of long months spent alone within the arctic wastelands with no one for company save himself. He sees it re-emerge when Sova returns from long missions, unable to quite rouse himself from silence. He feels warped satisfaction swirl in his gut at the way Sova’s brow furrows. The discontent that paints itself across his features is another form of victory.

“You’ll find that most bullets are not made for any one person. I took that one for the mission. Which succeeded, thanks to me,” Aamir says, slipping his arm out from Sova’s shoulders to reach for the door. Only to stop when Sova places a hand by the door frame. Boxing him in.

“You got in the way,” Sova’s voice is quiet.

“I got the job done.”

“You got in the way,” Sova repeats. “Don’t do it again.”

He turns around, wanting to see the expression on Sova’s face. He is not disappointed by what he finds. “Why? Will you stop me?”

“Don’t put yourself in harm’s way for me.”

“Stop me then,” he says, “I won’t stand by and watch you take _my_ bullet.”

Sova narrows his eyes, mouth thinning in displeasure. But he takes a step backwards, giving Aamir the space to turn around and open the door. He is not quite sure why it leaves him so hollow.

 _How disappointing_ , Aamir thinks. 

Only, Sova follows him inside. He leans against the doorway, arms crossed.

He does not say anything as Aamir takes off the remnants of his coat. Peeling off his vest and ruined shirt. His gloves are dark with blood, leaving bright handprints all over the white fabric of his coat. He throws everything into the bin, it is all unsalvageable.

He hesitates before discarding his mask. It is nothing more than a face plate at this point, after the damage taken when he fell. Still, taking it off makes him uncomfortable; he wears it more often than not now. Without his eyes he is vulnerable. He cannot see the dozens of pale lights that would mark Sova’s body. His web is invisible to him, as good as not existing at all. His mood sours as plastic clatters against the table.

The rest of his face mask peels away easily. The room is startlingly cool, once rid of all his extra layers.

Sova’s expression only hardens when he looks back up at him. 

“I can’t watch you put yourself in the line of fire. Not for my sake.”

“It is a good thing that it was not for you then,” Aamir says, “I am growing tired of this conversation. Will you repeat yourself again? I will not listen.”

“Then,” Sova steps forward, “I will make you listen.”

Aamir laughs, brittle. “Interesting. Try it.”

Sova reaches forward to cup his jaw, thumb pressing against the corner of his mouth. Sliding across his lips, pushing against his mouth. It would be easy to let him in. He can picture it. Giving into Sova now, taking all the tender, delicate affection directed towards him. And why wouldn’t he? Aamir has gone lengths to be gentle with Sova; to shower him in quiet, painless affection. To show him that Aamir would never push, never cross boundaries unless asked. Aamir has never been rough with him before. He finds himself empty of that patience now. And the thought of softness, a placid mimicry of love, makes his stomach turn.

Aamir denies him. He bares his teeth. “Try harder. I’m losing interest.”

Sova pulls away visibly startled. Aamir can see the confusion play across his features; it is delightful.

Sova opens his mouth, closes it, and then opens it again.

“I am not your family,” Sova says finally. “I am not Nora. I can take care of myself; I don’t need you to look out for me. Don’t use me to excuse your death wish.”

And he leaves.

Aamir watches the door slam behind him and cannot keep in his laughter. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a sic fic aahahhahah


End file.
